I see the wisdom in Dean Wareham’s ways. Despite the sincere sadness I felt upon his recent announcement that after their current tour, for which very few dates remain and too few dates were booked, Luna will be calling it quits. No more records or shows to look forward to- and rest assured there was constant anticipation with this band that fed us with glimpses, teased and tortured us with their reclusive tendencies. You could count on Luna for a handful of shows south of the Mason-Dixon annually, and maybe a record every three years. Yet, interest never waned. In fact, it was quit the contrary- hunger was never satiated, but the bones thrown our way kept us from starving and always looking forward to the next feeding frenzy. The album would stay in the stereo, songs remain stuck in our heads, and the memory of the last show where we wore our pressed shirts and shined shoes while drinking gin and tonics close enough to the stage, but off to the side and in a shadow to appear as aloof as a fanatic can ever possibly appear. That was the true measure of Luna gravity. Having just released the stellar Rendezvous to considerable acclaim and selling out East Atlanta’s premier indie music Mecca, The Echo Lounge, one would assume this apparent momentum- or at least evidence of sustained success would not result in permanent good-byes. But Wareham, bassist Britta Phillips, guitarist Sean Eden, and drummer Lee Wall prefer to end on a high note.
Upon arrival at the venue I began to understand the appeal of dissolution. Luna and their fans are no longer the young hipsters in fitted vintage shirts that smoke cigarettes they just rolled and quote Nietzsche and buy Lou Reed records (not just the greatest hits). These kids have grown up and most of us have 9 to 5 haircuts and our starving artists bodies have been filled out by sloth and drive-thru’s.
Show opener Palomar, piggy-backed on Luna’s shoulders, and the Brooklyn based seventy-five percent femme four-piece was an excellent blend of sass and crash pop. The occasional three-part harmonies and crunchy guitars kept the crowd interested for 45 minutes, which is always nice from an opener you’ve never been exposed to before. The lead singer was a realist in her self-deprecation. She said something to the effect of knowing that we were all huddled close to the stage in an effort to stake our claim to a nice spot- not to hear Palomar, but because Luna would be up shortly.
When they finally took the stage they wasted little time before launching into a set riddled with songs that showcased their sonic luminosity. The room was over-sold and when the doors were closed to keep out the cold (and the ticketless revelers that wanted to listen and peek from the street) we baked in the heat and thick humidity. The set was a predictable, yet perfect collection of Luna standards and several standouts from Rendezvous- most notably a solid “Malibu” during which Wareham broke a string but kept his composure and “Still at Home” one of two Sean Eden songs from the album. Eden’s subtle guitar genius and vulnerable vocals should keep him in the indie loop, despite Luna’s impending retirement from the scene. Of course Britta Phillips looked comfortable and gorgeous in her shadowy stage right spotlight, enjoying her role as the most beautiful bassist in rock and roll. The video cameras in the front row were capturing footage for what Eden promised would be a Luna documentary. They would sweep a crowd that mostly stood dumbfounded, scared to move as it seems for fear of missing something. Some yelled for their favorites one last time, “Bobby Peru” and “Pup Tent” come to mind- but never landed on the set list. Some professed their love for Dean Wareham- and others ogled the radiant Ms. Phillips.
The band didn’t disappoint at least one fan (your humble correspondent) when they played stellar renditions of “4000 Days” and “Tiger Lily” during the set, and then “23 Minutes in Brussels” during a two-song encore. The latter included a splendid and atmospheric series of guitar solos that were layered upon the leviathan thump of Wall’s drums and Britta’s bass lines.
When they didn’t emerge for a second encore I blamed the heat- and the long van ride to Carrboro, North Carolina. They could have played all night. I could have followed their van to North Carolina and points beyond. Regardless, I would have still wanted more and eventually got none. I envy our New York readers that will be able to ring in the New Year and decide which resolutions will be easiest to make and not break with Luna at the Southpaw in Brooklyn.
